


Façade

by gaypropagandist



Category: Political RPF - Russian 21st c.
Genre: M/M, putvedev
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 17:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4314441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaypropagandist/pseuds/gaypropagandist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That one time Dima worked over-time. Early 1992. Dima POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Façade

Dmitry Medvedev glanced at his watch: 11:03, time to call it a day. He had made quite a mess of the board room and really wasn’t in the mood to clean it up. While Mr. Sobchak was nice enough to give him his own space (he shared a large office with a secretary and two other assistants) there just wasn’t enough room.

That Monday they had found out there was to be an inquiry into the Foreign Relations Committee, specifically his boss Mr. Putin. Since he was a law graduate student and had access to SPBU’s resources Mr. Sobchak put him in charge of their defense. What he couldn’t understand was why they didn’t just hire an actual lawyer? He couldn’t tell if they just didn’t take the inquiry seriously of if they didn’t want to take it seriously.

Either way they were putting too much faith in him. Sure he studied hard, but he wasn’t ever in the top of the class. He enjoyed law, but being an actual lawyer was not something for him. He much preferred writing papers than standing in front of a courtroom, all eyes focused on him, and giving a speech. Just thinking about making a public speech made his palms sweaty.

He scooped up his briefcase, folders, and books, and headed back downstairs to his desk. He wasn’t about to take it all home with him for the weekend. He had his own paper to write. Work could wait till next week. It wasn’t like anyone in the office was overly concerned about this Marina Salye anyways.

Dmitry was surprised to find that the second floor hall light was still on. Had someone else stayed late like him? It was a Friday night. As far as he knew he was the office’s sole loser lacking a social life. Sure he had a girlfriend. A girlfriend who was constantly breaking up with him. A girlfriend who preferred to hang out with her friends rather than her boyfriend. No, he was not going to get into this now. He had too much homework, no time for a pity party.

When he got to his office he noticed a faint light coming out of the bottom of his boss’ door. Mr. Putin was always busy but he didn’t think he was an all-nighter type of guy. After locking up his paperwork in his desk he decided that it would be best to check-in on his boss. Perhaps he needed help with some paperwork. Not that he wanted to add to his ever growing pile of work or miss the last bus…

He knocked politely on the door, silently hoping he’d be told to go away.

No answer.

“Vladimir Vladimirovich?” He knocked again.

No answer.

Odd. Maybe he left for the day and forgot to turn the lights off? Curiosity got the better of him and he opened the door.

Oh, did he wish he hadn’t! As soon as he opened the door the stench of alcohol slapped him in the face. The entire office reeked of a nasty mixture of assorted liquors. He could see that on Mr. Putin’s desk were several bottles in various states of emptiness. But where was his boss?

Dmitry found him lying on the floor behind his desk looking quite disheveled. His tie was missing and his clothes were all wrinkled. If it weren’t for the empty bottle that Mr. Putin was clutching to his chest he would’ve felt the need to call an ambulance. If they were outside in one of the parks he’d probably mistake his boss for a drunken bum.

He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointment. He had always admired Mr. Putin’s stoicism and all-business attitude. But now it turns out he’s just another Saint Petersburg alcoholic. What a shame. But as much as Dmitry would have liked he could not just walk away. Mr. Putin had always been so very kind to him. His conscious could not bear leaving a colleague in such a state.

Dmitry knelt down on the ground next to him and gently shook his shoulder. “Vladimir Vladimirovich, wake up.”

After several progressively harder shakes Mr. Putin finally came to. Dmitry helped him sit up against the wall. He did not look well. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin was clammy. “Vladimir Vladimirovich it’s late. It’s time to go home.”

His boss looked at him blankly before mumbling in German. Or maybe he was just slurring? He didn’t really know as he didn’t speak German. He was definitely not saying anything coherent in Russian. 

“Oh, um… okay. I see. So it looks like you’re very drunk. Um…” Mr. Putin began to slump over.

“Hey, now!” Dmitry pushed him back up against the wall and shook him. “You can’t sleep in your office! It’s time to go home. Where do you live? I’ll call you a cab.”

After a few moments of silence Mr. Putin snorted and began to grumble under his breath. Dmitry didn’t know what to do. The man was drunk and only semi-conscious. He couldn’t leave him here, but what was he supposed to do with him?

“C’mon, get up.” He grabbed his arm and tried to pull him up. “It’s time to go home. Up.”

Mr. Putin almost fell over when he stood and had to lean against his desk to steady himself. He took a keen interest in the many nearly empty bottles sitting on his desk. Before Dmitry could stop him he had grabbed one and finished it off. But something about the bottle must have bothered him because he tossed it across the room causing it to smash into the wall.

Dmitry cringed at the sound of shattered glass. The situation was clearly deteriorating and he needed to act fast. “Well since I don’t know where you live and you seemed to have forgotten how to speak Russian I’m going to take you to my home for dinner. Maybe if we get some food in you you’ll start to feel better. Okay?”

Why did he even bother? The man was oblivious to the world. Could he even understand him? Is it possible for bilinguals to forget a language when they’re drunk? He grabbed his boss’ arm and led him to the door.

Down a flight of stairs and across two blocks he half-steered/half-carried his boss to the bus stop. Luck was on Dmitry’s side because they just made the final run of the night. Had he missed the bus he wouldn’t have known what to do next. There was no way he could’ve continued to support Mr. Putin’s dead, drunken weight for another two miles.

After boarding the bus Dmitry headed straight for the back. There were only two other passengers. Hopefully they would take no notice of the semi-conscious drunk man in the back. He had gotten in more than a handful of situations with unsavory folk on Saint Petersburg’s lovely public transportation system.

Within moments of the bus taking off Mr. Putin had fallen back asleep and decided to use poor Dmitry’s shoulder as a pillow. He thanked the lord that it was late at night and the other passengers were facing the other way so they couldn’t see the deep red blush spreading across his face. It wasn’t so much that Mr. Putin was a stranger, but that he wasn’t a close friend either. And he was basically nuzzling his neck. Well at least he had soft hair and was wearing nice cologne.

Dmitry’s blush deepened at these thoughts. What the hell was wrong with him? He needed to go to bed.

***

About a block before his stop he shook Mr. Putin awake. “Vladimir Vladimirovich, wake up! Our stop is coming up. It would be very bad if we missed it.”

After several more shakes Mr. Putin finally woke up, relatively speaking. Dmitry doubted he was completely aware of his surroundings judging by the hazy look in his eyes.

“This is our stop. We have to get off the bus now.” He had to tug on Mr. Putin’s arms several times to get him to stand up. He practically had to drag him off the bus as he was still having trouble standing up straight. Dmitry silently cursed himself for working late. Having gotten beaten and mugged one too many times by drunks he had come to loath dealing with drunken people. But not only that, he really didn’t care to know this side of his boss.

Up two flights of stairs they climbed to the top floor. Normally he didn’t mind living on the third and top floor since it meant not having to listen to as many noisy neighbors, but he didn’t care for it today. It’s hard to half-carry a man twice your weight up two sets of stairs.

“Here we are.” He began to dig through his pockets for his door key. Hopefully the lock wouldn’t give him too much trouble tonight. It had the tendency to stick, a problem only the building manager seemed to be able to fix And he was not in the mood to explain why he had a drunken, older man with him to his very nosey building manager.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught Mr. Putin trying to sit on the floor, “Hey, what are you doing!? We’re not inside yet!” His boss grumbled in response.

Success! He was able to open the door with no trouble. The night was finally going his way. Once inside he led Mr. Putin over to the couch who immediately curled up on it and fell back asleep. Dmitry could only shake his head. At least he wasn’t causing any trouble. Scratch that, more trouble.

He dropped his briefcase off on his desk and headed to the kitchen. He loved his home. His family was lucky to get a slightly larger apartment than normal. Not only did he get to have his own bedroom but there was even enough room for a small office for his father. When he was little he would sneak inside when his father was out to look through the many books he had.

Speaking of his family… “Let’s see… what is there to eat?” he opened the fridge and found a plate of leftover sausage and a bowl of pelmeni. His parents were spending the week with his mother’s parents down in Belgorod. She was kind enough to leave some food for him. He opted to reheat the sausages and to boil some potatoes. It wasn’t much but he didn’t think a guest as inebriated as Mr. Putin would be able to tell the difference between a proper meal and the made-up creation of a bachelor.

An hour and several ruined pots later Dmitry plated what was a really terrible excuse for dinner. But honestly, he was too tired to care.

“Vladimir Vladimirovich,” he shook his shoulder. “Wake up. I made some food for us. You need to eat.”

Mr. Putin only slightly stumbled over to the tiny kitchen table. His short nap must have helped him sober up a bit. Dmitry sat in the chair next to him and immediately attacked his plate. He had worked through lunch so he was starving. His dinner date, on the other hand, simply stared at his food.

Dmitry pushed the plate close to him.

“Is… is this for me?” Mr. Putin looked up at him, speaking in barely a whisper. His eyes were still hazy and bloodshot.

Dmitry almost dropped his fork. Thank the lord he was back to speaking Russian. But what kind of question was that? He was a guest and it was dinnertime (sorta). How could one not expect food?

“Yes. I made us dinner while you slept on my couch.”

Mr. Putin looked back at his food and stared at it for several moments before bursting into tears.

Dmitry immediately started to panic. What the hell was going on? What was he supposed to do now? Honestly, he didn’t expect a man like his boss ever cried. He was under the impression that KGB agents were incapable of having feelings. They were trained to have no emotions.

“Vladimir Vladimirovich, it’s just sausage and potatoes. It’s okay.”

But Mr. Putin put his head in his hands and continued to bawl. “No one’s ever been so kind to me. I’m such a terrible person. I don’t deserve such kindness,” he mumbled between sobs.

Dmitry was at a loss for words. Was he really that drunk? What awful things could’ve happened to his poor boss that would cause him to cry over boiled potatoes?

“I’m sorry for being such an imposition. I’m sorry you had to get involved in cleaning up my mess.”

Mess? What the hell was he talking about? He didn’t clean up his messy office… did… did he puke on the sofa??? “I’m confused…”

“I didn’t imagine it would turn out like this. Stealing money for the was not the job I had dreamed of. I hate it. I hate it so much. How is stealing helpful for the Motherland? I wasted five years of my life being a personal banker for lazy bosses who took great pleasure in watching our country collapse. They didn’t even try. They abandoned us. And what did I get? A pat on the head. I did such a good job that they decided to let me continue to manage their money. I’m so tired of being a puppet.”

What the hell was he talking about? He didn’t know much about his boss other than he once worked for the KGB and lived in Germany for a time.

“I feel so dirty and used.” He pulled out a bottle from inside his suit jacket and nearly downed the contents in one swig. “I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

Dmitry couldn’t recall him trying to smuggle booze from his office. Hopefully that was the only bottle he had on him because he didn’t really know how to respond to these insane drunken ramblings. “The past is the past. You work for Mr. Sobchak now, and he loves working with you!”

“Are you crazy!?” Mr. Putin turned to look at him. His tear stained cheeks and mad eyes were quite the contrast to his normally reserved, almost bored look. “This job is for life! You don’t just up and quit the security services! The only option is to go into exile. I don’t the resources for that, and besides I can’t uproot my family again. They’ve done their time. It’s my turn to care for them.”

He paused for a moment to look down at the bottle of alcohol sitting next to the nice plate Dmitry had prepared. “On paper Mr. Sobchak is my boss, but I don’t work for him. My real bosses are very angry with me now. I got caught. Hopefully I’ll survive the consequences…”

Mr. Putin grabbed the bottle to finish it off but Dmitry took it from his hands. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight. It’s probably best for you to go to bed.”

Dmitry grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to his bedroom. He didn’t want to be rude and make a guest, even a drunken one, sleep on his couch. Surprisingly, Mr. Putin did not resist and obediently stumbled after him. He didn’t even need to be told twice to go to bed. As soon as they got to his room Mr. Putin immediately curled up on the edge of the bed and fell asleep.

As Dmitry stared at his boss lying on his bed he couldn’t help but feel pity. He had no idea what exactly transpired back in the kitchen but he had the feeling that Mr. Putin was not making it all up. Maybe he did steal that money, and maybe he did steal it on behalf of the KGB. And maybe he was trapped in a cult. He began to feel guilty for gossiping with his colleagues about their mysterious ex-KGB comrade.

Dmitry grabbed some spare blankets from the hall closet. Even though it was the spring there was still a chill in the air. He gently wrapped one blanket around Vladimir trying his best not to disturb him.

He noticed the poor drunk still had his shoes on so he carefully slid them off. Just because he was inebriated and having a bad day it didn’t mean he had to be uncomfortable. He smiled to himself when he saw how small Vladimir’s feet were. It was nice to be around another short person, one less person to make jokes about his height.

He walked over to his alarm clock to make sure it was off. No need to be getting up at 5 AM on a Saturday (although he probably should given the amount of homework he had), but it was already 1:14 in the morning! He was absolutely exhausted. He glanced back at Mr. Putin. He was honestly too tired to get set up on his couch, and his bed was rather large…

To hell with it! This was his house and he had gone way beyond expected courtesy for Mr. Putin. Would a drunk really care or know if they shared a bed? So he quickly undressed and crawled under his blankets next to Mr. Putin.

Dmitry turned his head and looked over at his unexpected bedmate who had his back to him. His breathing was still steady and he hadn’t moved. He must be in a deep sleep. Poor Mr. Putin. To be so stressed that you drink to near oblivion and then pour your soul out to an employee you barely know…

So does this mean that his boss really did steal that money? The “bad trade” was a lie with the parties always intending to pocket the cash? Salye was right? There have always been rumors about government official being corrupt. In fact, many people just assume corruption. But this wasn’t just any scandal; this involved feeding the starving citizens of Saint Petersburg. Were there some officials who really didn’t care if people had food to eat? Was Mr. Putin one of them? But he was just crying in the kitchen!

Too many questions! It was all making his head spin. He squeezed his eyes shut, a vain attempt to calm his mind down. Don’t think about how the professor you once admired may have been in on this scheme. Don’t think about how you now might be defending a guilty party. Oh god, that’s probably why he was hired to defend Mr. Putin! They were not taking the inquiry seriously because it was going to be rigged in their favor.

He started taking deep breaths. It’s okay. It’s o..ka… His nose filled with the smell of Mr. Putin’s nice cologne. It made his nose feel warm. The cologne had a deep musk undertone with a hint of spice. It was nice and soothing scent. He wondered where he may have gotten it. Germany? Dmitry unconsciously inched closer to him as he soaked in the pleasant aroma. He drifted off into slumber thinking about how very nice his boss smelled.

***

Dmitry woke up around ten in the morning. Mr. Putin, on the other hand, remained asleep. Hewas still in the same position he was in when he passed out. He seemed dead to the world. Dmitry did his best to be quiet as he milled about the kitchen making some tea and porridge. He tried not to worry about what his boss would be like when he got up. He was bound to have a killer hangover.

The dreaded moment came just a little past noon. Dmitry had set himself up at his kitchen table to work on his term paper. He was just finishing off the introduction when all of a sudden he heard the pounding of feet, doors opening, and closing, and then vomiting. He waited a few minutes before he walked down the hall to the bathroom praying that Mr. Putin made it to the toilet.

Luckily for him he did. Dmitry found his boss sitting on the floor next to the toilet with his head in his hands. “Are you okay?”

Mr. Putin nearly jumped at the sound of his voice. He blinked at him a few times as if he were manually registering the events of last night.

“When you’re all set I made you some tea. I think it will help. “Dmitry rushed back to the kitchen. He felt really awkward standing there talking to man hanging off a toilet. It didn’t really make much sense since he wasn’t the one hung-over in a stranger’s house. Secondhand embarrassment?

A few minutes later Mr. Putin shuffled into the kitchen. He looked terrible. His clothes were even more wrinkled, he had dark bags under his eyes, and his hair was all disheveled. He sat down in the chair next to him doing his best to avoid eye contact.

Dmitry chuckled to himself. It wasn’t that he was enjoying his boss’ embarrassment; he just couldn’t get over how bizarre the whole situation was. “Let me get that tea…”

He cleared the table a bit and then set a cup of tea in front of Mr. Putin. Hopefully, he wouldn’t stare at this dishware like he did with the set last night.

“Wh…where are we?” asked Mr. Putin.

His voice was soft and quiet. Was he being shy? It was almost cute. Dmitry shook his head. Bizarre day. Bizarre thoughts. “You’re in my home.”

“Oh.” Mr. Putin was silent for a few minutes. “Why?”

“Well…” he didn’t know how to phrase this politely. How does one tell their boss he got too shift faced to be left alone? “I found you drinking in your office…”

“I drank a lot,” interrupted Mr. Putin. He rubbed the handle of the cup with his thumb.

He wasn’t sure if that was a question or a statement. “Yes, and I didn’t know where you lived so I brought you home with me.”

“Why?”

Dmitry didn’t exactly know how to explain himself. Because drunken people shouldn’t be left alone as they could hurt themselves or others? But no, that really wasn’t it. The truth was he was a push-over with a big heart. “Well,” he gestured to the cross sticking out of Mr. Putin’s shirt” I believe in kindness and treating people as how you would like to be treated.”

“Oh.”

That ‘oh’ hung in the air for what felt like an eternity. He didn’t really know what else to say. How does one make small talk in such a situation? “I’m sure your head is pounding. Let me get you something.”

He had barely stood when Mr. Putin grabbed his arm to stop him. “No. You’ve done too much already. It’s fine.”

“Well alright.” He sat back down.

“I am truly very sorry for causing you so much trouble.” If he didn’t know better he would’ve sworn a slight blush was spreading across his boss’ cheeks. “I’ve been a bit stress and was having a bad day so…”

Dmitry reached out and touched his arm. “It’s okay. There’s no need to worry about the inquiry. We have your back. We’ll show them.”

Mr. Putin just looked up at him and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Couldn’t remember the dates of the inquiry. Couldn’t remember Dima’s apartment number. So shoot me.


End file.
